


Lizard Brain

by PinkCoffeeMosquitoJelly



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, 19th Century Paleontology RPF
Genre: Fossils, Gen, Rivalry, The Bone Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:36:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkCoffeeMosquitoJelly/pseuds/PinkCoffeeMosquitoJelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, when Cope breaks camp at the end of the digging season, he leaves something behind instead of destroying everything.  Marsh investigates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lizard Brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dayadhvam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayadhvam/gifts).



The sun still had a few hours before it dipped below the horizon, but Othniel Charles Marsh was not as young as he used to be and was already thinking of his camp cot with longing. He was not contemplating the pleasures of going to bed early like some doddering old has been might. _He was not!_ A brief siesta would not be amiss, though, just a brief respite to refresh the mind and reenergize the body. They were at the tail end of the digging season in the Badlands, but an Indian summer had come upon them, leaving the afternoons wrapped in a desiccating warmth more suited for August than October. Over the years, he had caught plenty of his workers, most of them far younger than himself, napping through the heat of the day if left to their own devices, therefore claiming an hour or so of rest would be simple common sense, not a sign of decreasing vitality.

He could not help the sigh which escaped from his lips as he sat at his desk and stared out through his open tent flaps to the unforgiving terrain beyond. He had not touched brush or chisel to the fossil in front of him for over ten minutes. This was not as much fun as it used to be. However, any potential digressions into useless thoughts of regret were quickly curtailed when he caught sight of one of his scouts striding in his direction.

"Mr. Marsh, sir?" the man, one Mr. Jenkins or Janson or something similar which Marsh could not remember, said once he reached the entrance to the tent. Tall, scrawny, thirtyish maybe, with once-fair skin now thoroughly sunburnt, the man was but the latest in a long line of similar employees, officially a local guide hired to scout the richest fossil deposits for excavation but in practice a spy who kept watch on the Enemy.

"Don't just stand there gawping, man," Marsh grumbled, waving him into the tent with the small, fine-pointed chisel which had spent so long sitting forgotten in his hand. "Report."

"They're all gone, sir," Jenkins or Janson or whoever said. He removed his hat and wiped his shirtsleeve across his forehead, replacing the beading sweat with a fresh coating of dust. "The last of them finished loading what was left of their equipment and specimens and left this morning," he continued. "Mr. Cope was the last to go, just sat there staring at the rocks from up on his horse for what seemed like ages before he went, but the place is deserted now, sir."

"And of course he dynamited the entire hillside before he went," Marsh said. He did not bother to phrase the sentence as a question. There was no point. All summer Cope had been sending him gloating notes about what amazing discoveries never before seen by the eye of man the site had been yielding up with every turn of the shovel. There was no way Cope would have left the remains of such a treasure-trove sitting around for Marsh to get his hands on, and Marsh had felt the tremors from the inevitable blasting this very morning. Cope's site was miles away but part of the same rock formation as March was excavating, so despite being too far away to hear, the shockwaves from the blasting had traveled straight through the rock and gave Marsh's coffee cup and flatware a small but taunting series of rattles while he was eating breakfast. The deed was already done, so there was no use in getting his hopes up. Marsh would have done the same if he had been the one forced to leave first due to depleted funds, not that he would admit as much out loud until it was time to set the fuses. Marsh sighed again, set aside his brush and chisel, and took a drink from his canteen. Finally, he said, "Cope sat there staring at the rocks for ages before he left, you say?"

"Yes, sir," the man said. What was his name? It was J-something, not Jenkins, and not Janson either, but something close. Jenkinson? Yes, that sounded about right.

"He was probably checking to make sure his blasting had not accidentally uncovered a great find instead of destroying it all." Marsh gave a disdainful snort. "He wouldn't want to leave anything useful sitting out in plain view for me to stroll in, see, and claim for my own."

"But that's exactly what he did, sir," Jenkinson said. Well. That revelation certainly made Marsh sit up and take notice.

"What do you mean?" Marsh said, already trying to envision what Cope could possibly hope to gain by whatever this new ploy might be.

"He left a box, sir, about so big," and here Jenkinson spread his hands to sketch a rectangular shape in the air, perhaps ten or twelve inches high and by a similar amount wide by fourteen or fifteen inches long, "and all done up in fancy wrapping paper, like a gift on Christmas, with a tag saying no one but you was to open it."

"Well, give it here, man, so we can be done with this mystery," Marsh snapped, but even as the words were leaving his mouth, his brain was reminding him that Jenkinson had entered the tent with nothing but his hat.

"Didn't bring it with me, sir," Jenkinson confirmed. "Knowing Mr. Cope bears as little love for you as you do for him, I was afraid he might have ended his expedition with some dynamite leftover and had a sneaky idea for how to use it to get one up on you once and for all, if you know what I mean."

"The idea _is_ plausible," Marsh said. In fact, the idea was disturbingly plausible. With Cope's finances failing, he might have chosen to resort to the crudest of methods to eliminate his competition, and the size of box Jenkinson had indicated was suspiciously similar to that of a fifty pound crate of dynamite. It would be just like Cope to stoop to such an act rather than finally admit he had been bested. Still, Marsh knew he would go mad from curiosity if he left the box sitting unexamined out in the Badlands. "Oh, dash it all," Marsh muttered as he came to the exact conclusion which Cope must have known he would. He gave another calculating glance at the height of the sun then confirmed those calculations against his pocket watch. If they left now and rode at a trot or above whenever possible, they should be able to reach their destination before nightfall. Silently cursing his own stupidity and trying to ignore the protests of his aging knees and back, Marsh rose from his seat and said, "Go fetch a pair of fresh horses and overnight supplies for us. Then, you are going to show me where this box is." After a moment of thought, he added, "And make sure to tell everyone that if they hear an explosion not of their own making, then it will be the sound of Edward Drinker Cope having murdered me."

Jenkinson looked doubtful but managed to nod and say, "Yes, sir," without questioning his employer's sanity before departing to do his bidding.

Well, Marsh thought to himself as he gathered the various accoutrements he expected to need for the journey, so much for the idea of going to bed early tonight. At least he was no longer bored.

Several long and uncomfortable hours of riding later, Marsh and Jenkinson arrived at the Cope expedition's recently abandoned dig site. The mysterious box sat at the edge of what had most likely been the camp's main fire circle. It was indeed festively wrapped, just as Jenkins had described. There was even a ribbon tied into a fancy bow on top. However, the box's size confirmed Marsh's earlier suspicions, and therefore, despite its fancy trappings, to his eyes it appeared to be about as innocent as an ambush predator tensed to spring on its next meal. If it did not turn out to be a dynamite crate hidden under that paper, then Marsh was going to eat his hat.

Unfortunately, they could not just stand there doing nothing forever. All but a tiny sliver of the sun had already dropped behind the hills, and soon that would be gone as well, leaving them in deepening twilight. If they wanted to complete their task in time to make camp before full dark, then they were going to have to buck up and get to it. Having gathered all the data that he could glean from afar, Marsh approached the box for a closer inspection while Jenkinson, no fool, hung back in the partial shelter of a boulder large enough to provide some measure of cover from an explosion should their suspicions be all too suddenly confirmed. Marsh could not see any wires which might be used to connect the box to a remote detonator, but he had no way to rule out the presence of a triggering mechanism hidden inside. With great care not to move the box at all, just in case, he sliced through the ribbon with his penknife and then slit the paper apart.

Yes, that was definitely a wooden dynamite crate.

Marsh eased his knife into the thin crack between the lid and body of the box then sat back on his heels, staring at the protruding ivory handle. He considered just levering the lid off and being done with this nonsense, but then his thoughts returned to that hypothetical triggering mechanism which might be inside alongside an unknown quantity of dynamite, and he opted for a more prudent course of action. He carefully pulled the knife out of the crack then carefully slid it into the crack on the side of the box facing away from Jenkinson's boulder. Then, Marsh retrieved a ball of twine from his saddlebag, tied one end around the penknife's handle, draped the twine across the top of the box, and headed towards Jenkinson and his shelter, unspooling more twine as he went.

As Marsh approached, Jenkinson held out his hand and said, "Would you like me to do the honors, sir?"

"No," Marsh said, shaking his head. "Some things a man must do for himself if he is to get any satisfaction from the deed." They both ducked behind the boulder, and Marsh began gathering in the loose twine. When there was no slack left, he muttered a quick countdown from three and then pulled sharply on the twine. The lid flew free with almost no resistance, and Marsh had a split second to wish that he had thought to bring more men to act as witnesses against Cope's attempt of murder upon their employer so that they could later all give testimony in court. Then he realized that no explosion was forthcoming, not even a delayed one, and he had a much longer stretch of time with which to give thanks for his foresight in not bringing along any more men than necessary to witness this ridiculousness.

After picking up his penknife, cleaning the dirt from the blade, and returning it to his pocked, Marsh once again approached the box. There wasn't any dynamite inside, not even so much as a stain in the wood from nitroglycerine leakage. The sun was well below the horizon by now, and the heat of the day was already being replaced by the chill of evening, but there was still enough light lingering in the sky to read note which had been waiting inside the box.

"My dearest Othniel," the letter began, "Please accept my humble gift in the spirit in which it is intended. I saw this specimen and immediately thought of you. After all, your tiny craniums are both so similar that the resemblance in uncanny, and it would have been criminal to allow the two of you to remain separated for any longer than necessary. Kindest regards, as always, EDC."

Under the note sat a fist-sized reptile skull. There was nothing else in the box. It was not even a fossil, just the poorly cleaned skull of a modern common iguana. This could not have been some spur of the moment jape concocted by Cope in the hours before he broke camp. Iguanas were not endemic to any area within a thousand miles of the Badlands, so the skull would have needed to be shipped in with the other expedition supplies. Cope must have planned this display of juvenile humor weeks or even months in advance. With a shout of anger, Marsh threw both note and skull to the ground.

Jenkinson very wisely said nothing, and Othniel Charles Marsh spent a very bitter night stewing in the knowledge that somewhere out there Edward Drinker Cope was laughing at him.

The End


End file.
